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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025595">if i don’t believe in love (nothing will last for me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascendingfromatoms/pseuds/ascendingfromatoms'>ascendingfromatoms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bus, Fluff, Headaches &amp; Migraines, M/M, Semi Eita Swears, Sleepy Cuddles, Summer Training Camp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:49:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascendingfromatoms/pseuds/ascendingfromatoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi Eita will never admit that he loves it when Shirabu runs his fingers through his hair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Semi Eita/Shirabu Kenjirou, Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>292</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>if i don’t believe in love (nothing will last for me)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>if don’t believe in love</b>
</p><p>(nothing will last for me)</p><p> </p><hr/><p><br/>“Cover the ball!”</p><p>On the backline, the libero connects the volleyball with a receive that moves in an arc-like motion to the setter. From the sidelines, Semi has a clear view of the set-up. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t have been able to pick up the ball from that angle and the incredible speed at which it's racing towards the floor. Shirabu steps aside calmly and sets up the ball to Ushijima with indisputable precision.</p><p>Semi feels as though his entire world is shattering.</p><p>Shirabu’s standing right where he’s supposed to be. Their teammates are clapping him on the back, giving him attention and praise, before rotating places with the new server. Semi can’t even bring himself to think anything good of the second-year setter that stole his place on the starting roster. He just hates everything about him.</p><p>It is the third set, and Washijo-sensei has kept the starting players for the entire duration of the game. They have been playing well, <em> exceptionally </em> well, and just about to take down their opponent in straight sets of a five-set match. There’s no sign of exhaustion on the players’ faces. No one appears to be breaking a sweat. It’s a conflicting thought. Shiratorizawa is going to make it to Nationals, that’s a given. But it feels wrong to just <em> watch </em> it happen.</p><p>The other team fumbles the ball, and the serve goes right back to Shiratorizawa. With serves alone, they were able to score half the points in the set, Ushijima taking five consecutive service aces. Shirabu sets a deadly clean shot to their wing spiker, who smacks it down with an unwavering intensity: a miracle set that only Shirabu Kenjirou could manage.</p><p>Now, the setter stands less than two feet away, fixing the sports tape on his fingers, talking easily to another one of the pinch servers. The asymmetrical cut of his bangs is plastered to his forehead, and he absentmindedly brushes it out after re-wrapping his tape. He doesn’t even know why he wants to scream. Shirabu looks over at him—<em> he probably does. </em></p><p>“What is it now?” he mutters, mostly to himself. If watching Shirabu play on the court was bad enough, attempting to cordially communicate with him was increasingly worse with each passing day that he was exposed to him.</p><p>Shirabu shrugs, “Oh, it just looked like you needed something because you were staring.”</p><p>“Fuck that,” he retorts, uselessly defensive. He should know it is in vain because it does little to ruffle his feathers. The setter in question snorts and returns to the court without furthering the conversation.</p><p>The rest of the match wraps up quickly. They shake hands with the opposing team, practice their serves, stretch and head to locker rooms to hit the showers and change. Post-game is when their adrenaline settles, and the exhaustion finally kicks in. Goshiki tells him that he could sleep for days.</p><p>Ushijima emerges from the locker room, gathering the players in the center of the gym. All of them are bone-tired from their practice game, and the one hundred serves that immediately followed. However, they find it in themselves to straighten at the sight of their honorable captain. He simply stands and calls them to attention. “Washijo-sensei requires us to get proper rest before the trip tomorrow. Be early. Don’t miss the bus.”</p><p>“We are going to be waking up quite early, so be mindful of your time and take it upon yourselves to have a good breakfast in the morning.”</p><p>Tendou yawns, “That’s right, Wakatoshi.”</p><p>Shortly afterwards, the team is dismissed, and Semi escapes out the back door to get to his dorm as soon as possible.</p><p>He flops onto his bed with a different kind of tiredness; not physical, because he hardly played today. Either way, closing his eyes will soothe the incoming headache that he unsettles the very hair on his head. Not even in his sleep can he escape the dreadful thoughts of inferiority and one particular setter… </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He is the worst at waking up on time. That’s why Yamagata is bursting through their shared dorm scrambling to get him downstairs: “You didn’t answer your cell, so I had to run back here and wake you up myself.”</p><p>He pries away the pillow that is comfortably positioned beneath his head, and Semi groans, “I turn my phone off at night, I wouldn’t have gotten your text either way.”</p><p>Thankfully, all Semi has to do is bring himself downstairs. His bag was already packed and stored on his side of their closet. He tugs it behind him en route to the gymnasium. It’s five in the morning and he has already neglected all of the responsibilities that Ushijima mentioned after practice.</p><p>They get to the gymnasium fucking late, fucking tired and <em> fucking </em> hungry. Well, Semi at least. They toss their belongings under the bus. Yamagata lets him board first, and he ducks his head low to avoid incoming questions from his teammates that are very much verbose and functioning at the asscrack of dawn. He takes two more steps forward and stops completely. The ugly mug of Shirabu’s hair is peeking over the seat. <em> His </em>seat.</p><p>“What the fuck, that’s my seat,” he whips around exasperatedly, turning to face Yamagata. He doesn’t have much to say about the matter, “I’m your roommate, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to go the extra mile for you and protect your stupid window seat from potential takers.</p><p>“If you snooze, you lose, Semi-Semi!” Tendou chirps from beside him, which earns him a famous glare in return.</p><p>Reon rests his chin on his hand in a contemplative position, “Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to sit next to your kouhai,” <em>His words, not mine</em>. He appears to have a second thought and bursts into laughter.</p><p>Tendou wiggles his eyebrows, “A little heart to heart between Shiratorizawa’s two setters on a five hour bus ride, am I right?”</p><p>Semi rolls his eyes, “Hilarious.”</p><p>“He won’t bite, now will he? Kenjirou is just a softie beneath that thick head of his,” Kawanishi adds, which causes the group to burst into very audible laughter. Semi feels a fresh migraine sprouting in his temples.</p><p>He mutters, “Alright, fuck off. I’m tired as hell.” He feels the eyes of his teammates follow him all the way down to the end of the bus. Shirabu’s bag is in the adjacent seat. As Semi leans forward to move it aside, Shirabu says dryly, “That seat is taken.”</p><p>His eyes narrow at the boy, “If you’re trying to say that seat is not mine, shut the hell up. It’s the last seat on this bus and I’d very much like to go to sleep, if you’d excuse me.”</p><p>“Oh, look who’s finally awake,” the setter coughs, not moving his bag one inch. He is sitting so casually, with one earbud in his ear and his nose in a book. It occurs to Semi that he has never seen him outside of his volleyball uniform for that matter. The thought distracts him slightly, but he regains his composure quickly.</p><p>Semi crosses his arms. Here it goes: “Okay, <em> this—</em>” he gesticulates towards the lame bag, “is the kind of thing that belongs in an overhead compartment. See?” he flicks it open, “See?”</p><p>Shirabu looks at him hard. “Really? Well, I was thinking that you would fit in there if you tried hard enough,” he says without missing a beat.</p><p>“What the <em> fuck </em>is that logic.” Semi says, throwing his hands up for the umpteenth time that day.</p><p>“You’re small, you’d fit,” he resumes his crossword or sudoku, or whatever the hell it was. Semi frankly doesn’t give a shit. He feels like he’s been standing in there for ages.</p><p>He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the pressure build in his brain, threatening to spill out, “Listen, I’m seriously not dealing with this right now. My head’s fuckin’ pounding and you’re not helping me one bit by giving me a hard time.”</p><p>He stops. “Fine,”</p><p>The bag is moved overhead, and Shirabu returns soundlessly to the window seat with his music and book. Semi slumps into his seat, clutching his head with one hand. This definitely is not how he wanted to wake up today, if at all. The world outside the window is still dark, and Shirabu needs the overhead light to read the words on the page. It’s an old bulb, and it’s barely bright, but it feels like the sun behind his closed eyelids.</p><p>He wants to be in his bed curled up in the pillows, drinking tea to soothe the pain. But he’s in a dingy bus with an even dingier seatmate, headed towards two weeks worth of hard training. He’d pick the bed scenario easily.</p><p>Thinking is hard, and it makes his head feel like it's ripping open, right down the middle. He tries to lean back into his seat, but finds no peace. The light from above is scattering in every direction, straight into the cornea of his eyes, no matter where he turns. He hears the flipping of the pages of Shirabu’s book. Thinly disguised, irregular. Simple sounds are turned to symphonies, not particularly cacophonic, but enhanced. <em> Overwhelming</em>.</p><p>He feels the harsh flipping of each page like it's an extension of his own body. The bus has barely left the school, and he really doesn’t want to be alive right now. In the stillness of the bus, the talking up front has become a soft hush, now giving way to intermittent snores from his teammates.</p><p>Shirabu’s ever diligent about his reading. Their light, at the back of the bus, is the only one that’s on in the <em> entire </em> bus. He feels so pissy about himself and his situation, he can’t even speak. At least he knows that covering his eyes with his hands works.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, feeling a dizzying wave of tension spread through his brain. “Could you please stop reading?”</p><p>His hands are still covering his eyes, but he can tell that Shirabu has set his book aside for later. Shirabu moves to examine him, with perceptive setter eyes that he can feel dragging across the wrinkle in his brow to the curl of his lip. He speaks softly, uncharacteristically so, “Are you okay, Semi-san?”</p><p>Semi mumbles, “I get these bad migraines sometimes when I’m really stressed. There’s nothing I can do about it, they just come and go.”</p><p>He asks, “Do you have any medication that will alleviate the pain?” Semi only responds with a slight shake of his head. He had run out of pills, and his migraines hadn’t been like this in a long time, so he didn’t bother going back to the pharmacy.</p><p>“Anything?”</p><p>His head hurts so much. “Can you turn off the light?” he manages to choke out. Semi knows that he sounds like he’s begging. He’s fucking desperate for solace. Shirabu is being awfully nice to him, and he appreciates it, for once.</p><p>He’s leaning back into the seat when he feels delicate fingers ease his hands away from his face. Next, he’s being shifted sideways, until the side of his head pillows against the bony shoulder of his seatmate. “Whuh—”</p><p>“Easy does it,” hushes the boy, pressing his fingertips into the corners of his temples, drifting until they pinpoint the exact spot that makes him groan. A sense of calm clouds his aching thoughts, and Semi only squirms closer to feel it again. And <em> again</em>. Apparently, Shirabu is not just a miracle setter with those hands of his: he’s also more than capable of unwinding the worst of his migraines with careful strokes in the right places.</p><p>Semi has long, spidery fingers weaving through the tufts of his hair, and it feels so perfect, so <em> good</em>. He tilts his head to press his forehead against the hard shoulder of his companion, feeling something inside him subside. He makes a sound. Shirabu’s voice bends all the way down to his heart, humming.</p><p>“I got you,” his breath tickles the skin behind his ear. Semi swears that he heard him say, <em> babe</em>, but his mind could be playing tricks on him. And so he scratches down on his scalp where it really counts.</p><p>“Kenjirou,” he croons, feeling his voice crack in an awkward place. There’s no reply, only fingers tugging at the fine roots of his hair. The setter’s hands are lost in his hair, massaging down the rougher edges. Neither of them say a word for a while. His eyes are tired, and his pillow is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Semi supposes he could fall asleep, for a little bit… <br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p>
  <em><br/>You’re supposed to hate him! </em>
</p><p>But he makes me feel safe.</p><p>
  <em> You’re too close to him! </em>
</p><p>But he makes me feel good.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tendou is awake, that’s one thing apparent from the loud chortling from the front of the bus. This causes Semi, and many others to wake up. Still, he makes no effort to speak or move, keeping his eyes shut tight. He remembers it all. Everything’s just as it was: his body leeching onto his kouhai setter, a warm arm pulling him inwards. <em> We’re fucking cuddling</em>, his brain comprehends, slowly catching up with his body, which has clearly lost its basic function, relying on instinct and survival.</p><p>He must have fallen asleep before Shirabu, or they must have gotten a lot closer in the brief moments between consciousness and sleep. People are passing to the back of the bus to use the restroom, but he doesn’t care what it looks like right now. His teammates can call it what they’d like because he’s not fucking doing it right now.</p><p>Shirabu shifts underneath him, awake now. Right about now, his shoulder’s probably dead with the weight of holding another, but all he does is breathe out slowly, and readjust himself. Semi’s perched on the bony shoulder of his seatmate, trying to cling onto the simple feeling of being asleep. Meanwhile, he futilely tries to understand why that was the best nap he ever had.</p><p>The bus makes a quick stop, and the boys unload for a much-needed stretch. It is then that Shirabu taps him lightly on the shoulder to ease him off. Semi grumbles, and rubs his sore neck. Few words are exchanged between them as they slip out the vehicle, and Shirabu makes a beeline to Kawanishi. Probably anywhere that he won’t be.</p><p>Yamagata doesn’t fail to bring it up. He catches him at the tail end of the restroom line, entertaining him with a smirk, “Wow, I never would have guessed you were a cuddler.”</p><p>In return, Yamagata gets a sucker punch to the gut and an order to be silent (<em>you’ve overstayed your time, Shirabu-san</em>). It’s embarrassing. They finish up and head back to the bus where the team is setting up lunch in the grassy area beside the parking lot. Semi joins the other third-years at the curb and combs through his lunch pack. Most of the conversation is facilitated between Tendou and Yamagata, and Semi chips in his two cents when asked.</p><p>Under the shade of a nearby tree, Kawanishi, Shirabu and a handful of underclassmen are discussing their own topics. It’s different from when they were alone earlier. Semi averts his eyes from his kouhai, and rejoins the wacky story that Yamagata is telling. It’s a good distraction. Regardless, the rumor still circulates that Washijo-sensei does indeed snore like a slumbering bear when he sleeps.</p><p>Tendou plops himself down next to Semi, still munching on his bento. “Spill the tea. You like him or something?” He leans in too close for comfort, and promptly sends him backing away.</p><p>Semi swats at his adopted best friend, “First Yamagata in the bathroom, now you. What the hell do you guys want from me?”</p><p>“Nothing, Semi-Semi. That’s all.”</p><p>“What’s all?” he presses.</p><p>“You’re probably just being defensive because you like Shirabu. You like him so much that you want to hold his hand and hug him all night long,” Tendou drawls, practically calling the attention of everyone in a five mile radius. Semi slaps a hand over Tendou’s mouth, earning a couple glances from his nearby teammates. He swears he feels Shirabu’s eyes on him. It’s impossible. <em> Tendou </em> is impossible, and all he has to do is call him out on his bullshit.</p><p>“Bullshit,” he voices his internal thoughts, “This isn’t a fucking slice of life anime, on the contrary to what you seem to be thinking.”</p><p>Tendou raises a brow, “Really?”</p><p>He extends a hand between the two of them, an odd gesture, and proceeds to speak, “Lemme let you in on a secret? Come on, it’ll be so much fun.”</p><p>“Fine,” indulges Semi, knowing that it was a matter of minutes before he would be selling his soul to the devil. The red-haired middle blocker cajoles him into trouble more times than he can count, stuff like swapping Goshiki’s water bottle with Ushijima’s in between sets, knowing full well that Goshiki won’t even let people use the same fork after he’s eaten from it, and other practical jokes. Whatever Tendou has got up his sleeve has got to be devious.</p><p>“Yay! Now you are privy to the information I am about to tell you, because you agreed to the terms,” Tendou shouts. Suddenly, his energy subsides, and he bends over to talk more quietly. Here it comes:</p><p>“I heard this from Goshiki, the other day after practice. He went real quiet when he was talking to Taichi. Weird, I know, like, I’m not sure if it’s super true, but he sounded serious?”</p><p>“Okay,” Semi hums to show he is listening. After practice, he often leaves as quickly as possible just because he’s not in the mood to hang around the people he had already spent hours with during training. Yamagata, well, he can’t be avoided because they share a dorm and are headed in the same direction anyways.</p><p>His voice drops another level, “Kenjiro-chan has a serious crush on you, Semi.”</p><p><em> Shit</em>—</p><p>In a split second, Semi’s mind has traveled from the moon and back, frantically flicking through every single moment they have spent in each others’ presence.</p><p>Although they have only known each other for the short duration of high school, Shirabu has subconsciously weaseled his way into the very fibers of his being. He finds him in his summer memories, likely in the background, a little off to the right. Even in colder days, letting the puffs of his breath fog up the air in front of Goshiki’s face, just to be petty.</p><p>And that’s not all. Semi thinks back to merely moments before, where he was back in the bus, resting on the shoulder of his stupid kouhai. How he called him by his name, and wrestled the pain from his mind with feathery touches. Of course, Shirabu likes him. It makes sense that he does. <em> He’s pretty, </em> his brain suggests.</p><p>Tendou takes note of his reaction, “It was just a hunch, no need to get all worked up about it.</p><p>Semi clenches his forehead, “It makes complete goddamn sense, so of course I’m going to be worked up about it.” The words sound weak on his tongue, so he tacks on an extensively crabby, “Fuck you, Tendou.”</p><p>He proceeds to sulk, nibbling on his <em> tekkamaki </em> relatively slowly (his favorite food, so Tendou can tell that something’s on his mind). The middle blocker taps his chin, “Now, all there’s left to do is find out if it’s true at all. Figure him out, find his truth. If you can prove him right, you could find yourself a place back on the starting roster.”</p><p>The starting roster… </p><p>That would mean a year of fulfillment. Taking down Nationals with the powerful Ushiwaka at his side, and the other star Shiratorizawa players that he had worked with for the past three years. Being the official setter was what he was meant to be. <em> He </em>was the one with the sports scholarship, and the one with the experience. Semi couldn’t allow his hard work to amount to nothing during his third year.</p><p>“But wait! You’ve got to be shitting me.”</p><p>“Okay, <em> fine.</em> It was an excuse to get you to actually listen to me, but seriously—“</p><p>He is brought back to reality with a call from Ushijima, their conversation dispelled from the air. And he boards the bus, sitting next to his kouhai setter, feeling heavy with knowledge that could ultimately rebuild a fallen empire, and cause another to crumble.<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>The training camp is filled with endless games. They play five-set round robin matches one after another with other top power schools in the country. It’s obvious that they are the most seasoned and conditioned team there, but it doesn’t mean that they don’t put up a good fight.</p><p>Tendou and the other front-liners fight block for block. Still, they have a few obvious advantages over the other team, the fortified defense of their blockers and the sheer strength of their spikers. Shiratorizawa players are well-oiled machines that don’t tire until about the fourth set. Their team is the one that is destined to win.</p><p>“Ushijima-san, last one!” Goshiki cries, as the ball’s set directly towards their champion ace. The volleyball’s slammed into the ground before anyone on the opposite side of the net can comprehend that it even occurred. Their captain shoots a frustrated glance towards their coach, and a time-out is called.</p><p>Washijo-sensei says his piece, “Keep your focus. They will give out at any moment, but you cannot allow yourselves to do the same. This is an easy win. Do not disappoint me, or your school.”</p><p>The team collectively nods. They arrange themselves in a brief huddle, both substitutes and court players. Ushijima restates their coach’s words, and when thirty seconds are up, the whistle is blown to call the game back into play.</p><p>“A word, Eita-kun,” says their coach.</p><p>Semi gives the court a lookover, and retreats back towards the benches. Washijo-sensei gestures for him to take a seat next to him, and then crosses his arms again. If there’s anyone in the world that Semi is afraid of, it’s the stern Shiratorizawa coach, the slumbering bear who strikes when he finds opportunity. They both watch the game silently unfold on the court in front of them, but he feels as though the coach is silently picking him apart.</p><p>In this rotation, Ushijima is positioned in the back row, and the mötley crüe of Goshiki, Tendou, and Shirabu are in the front row. The other team’s ace comes at the blockers with an unrestrained cut-shot, and the ball just barely skims the edge of Shirabu’s fingertips, awarding a point to the opposing team.</p><p>“Do you understand why that just happened?” his coach inquired. Semi replays the moment in his mind, the set-up—the one touch—the failed block. It wasn’t a matter of reading the block incorrectly, everyone was in the right place for the spike. It was a matter of the block itself.</p><p>“There was a player who didn’t match up his jump with the other blockers,” concludes Semi, which makes his coach hum in approval.</p><p>“Now, that's the problem with Kenjirou-kun. He can never make it to the summit of the ball’s projected route in time. Whenever he is in the front row, that makes him a weak spot,” Washijo-sensei states firmly, dragging on the young setter.</p><p>Because of the little fumble, the other team maintains control of the volleyball, leaving the same players in rotation. The ball is served into their court, picked up by the libero, and set, whirring back over the net. It is a longer rally than most go, but Washijo wants him to keep paying attention. Find the pattern. <em> Find his truth.</em></p><p>It’s the same thing again, and it is more apparent than the first time around. The ball almost grazes the top of his fingers, it would have been a successful block if he had gotten there a little faster, or jumped a little higher. Tendou tells him to shake it off, and reminds him not to tense up, but the fact of the matter is screaming in his mind:</p><p>Shirabu isn’t tall enough.</p><p>Although he paid attention to the game, Semi never truly allowed himself to watch Shirabu in action. He was a decent setter that faded into the background of it all, and at times, it was easy to forget that he was even on the court. Shirabu called the least amount of attention to himself, as to bring out the strengths of their stronger assets.</p><p>Shiratorizawa players are tall, as they say. And it is just a fact that he’s the shortest among giants. In preliminary games, his height isn’t an issue at all. Shirabu’s keen intellect is enough to distract their opponents from the fact that he falls below the average height of a Shiratorizawa player. He only becomes a target once the other team realizes it.</p><p>As collected as he may appear on the exterior, Semi knows that Shirabu gets desperate late-game. It’s nearing the end of the fourth set, exhaustion beginning to kick in, and if they don’t take this set from the other team, they’re definitely going to have to fight for it.</p><p>Washijo-sensei frowns again, “Technique is getting sloppy. Not decent.”</p><p>For the remainder of the set, he harps on the players of the team. There’s definitely a lot to improve on all-around, but seeing it from the eyes of his coach brings the weaknesses of his otherworldly players into perspective. Reon, the formidable wing spiker, has a strong arm, but definitely needs to improve his shot placement. Goshiki sometimes loses sight of the ball when his bangs get in the way. Kawanishi’s jump serves are not as strong as the other members.</p><p>“You may be a substitute for the time being, but there is a place for you on the court, Eita-kun. You have the height, and the markings of a spiker.”</p><p>“A spiker—”</p><p>His brow furrows, “But don’t get me wrong when I say this: you are no Shirabu Kenjirou.”</p><p>Semi’s hands clench at his sides. He thinks to himself, <em> what was the point of that if he only meant to shoot me down? </em> He’s bigger and stronger, and so much better than Shirabu ever could be. That’s <em> his </em> spot on the court, the team’s setter. Frustration builds on his lips, but he wouldn’t dare to let it slip in front of Washijo-sensei. The slumbering bear.</p><p>“That’s all,” he tuts dismissively.</p><p>“Don’t let your body get cold, that’s the worst thing that you can do to yourself.” Washijo-sensei sends him back to the box, both of them knowing full well that he won’t be substituted back into the game anyways. At the end of the day, Shiratorizawa won every match.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <em>Nothing is new for me</em>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Nothing is warm for me</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em> And nothing is real for me </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The team is gathered in the dining hall, eating together, yet in their separate groups. Ever since he was taken off of the starting roster, Semi never was in the mood to talk about volleyball with his teammates when they weren’t on the court. Ushijima didn’t like to talk much in general, so he stuck around him in times such as these.</p><p>His other teammates occupy themselves with their own idiocy, on the next table over. Semi feels oddly aware of his teammates weaknesses, and his own. Washijo-sensei’s words are replaying in his head, and he begins to wonder if he even knows his team at all. He failed to notice their little quirks, and places where they fall short. He feels as though Washijo-sensei has fucked up his self-confidence with a simple statement.</p><p>The third years take the bathroom first, and Semi washes up quickly before heading back to the room. All of the futons are laid out for sleeping, via the first years, and he returns to his spot in the corner, front facing the wall. It’s the same story as the day before, overworked and underwhelmed. And god— here comes another headache.</p><p>Sharing a room with Yamagata isn’t a problem. They are accustomed to each other's habits, and strange attitudes (their room is a little humid because they both can’t stand being cold). It’s just the problem of training camps, sleeping in a single room with all of the team in one place, an utter recipe for disaster. His teammates leave him be, but it’s not enough. The aimless chatter, and the midnight noise, it still finds a way to torment him. And so he never gets sleep once the horrible snoring starts.</p><p>He’s laying with a pillow on his face when Goshiki appears in front of him. “Hey, Semi-san. Here is a cold compress for your head, we got it from the nurse’s office.”</p><p>“Thanks,” he manages weakly, accepting the ice pack. Goshiki sits with him, as he tries to apply pressure on the same spot that Shirabu kneaded with his soft fingers (<em>it’s not working quite the same, he admits</em>). Of the Shiratorizawa players, Goshiki is hands-down the most loyal teammate, off and on the court. He keeps him company, and in his own little way, softens the surrounding sounds.</p><p>“Uh, Semi-san? I hate to ask, but what did Washijo-sensei pull you over for in the fourth set? You seemed really bothered by it.” Goshiki’s expression is filled with eager curiosity. Not to mention, he’s also the most <em> persistent </em> player on the team.</p><p>He sighs, “Oh, that was just Washijo going on a little rampage, that’s all.” It’s true, but not the whole truth. His season is fucked. There’s no way he’ll make it back to the starting roster, no matter what Tendou claims, joke or not. It’s a fucking lot like raising the dead, if he’s being honest.</p><p>However, Goshiki doesn’t let up, “Was it about the game? I swear, we won every match today, if that old bastard is asking for more than that, I swear.” Expectantly, he awaits a response, but Semi isn’t going to give it to him. His head is hurting more than he can bear. This needs to end soon.</p><p>“He was just being an asshole.”</p><p>“Uh—was it about Shirabu?”</p><p>Semi grinds his teeth together, “Don’t put your feet in murky waters, Goshiki. I don’t want to talk about him, <em> especially </em> with you.”</p><p>“But… Tendou said—”</p><p>“—Well, listen up ‘cause Tendou told me that you told Kawanishi after practice one day that Shirabu had a goddamn crush on me.”</p><p>The younger player is rendered speechless, and is caught red-handed in the act. He is looking down at his hands with his shitty bangs covering what’s left of his dignity. It’s an unsightly look on his usually angry face. If there’s anything that he doesn’t know about Goshiki, he learns it all in that moment, spills out in a fiery retort.</p><p>“You have to stop leading him on if you really don’t like him, you have no idea how it makes him feel! God, maybe you don’t even realize it, but he’s always watching and waiting for you to give him a chance. He feels insignificant in comparison to you, he just wants to make a difference.”</p><p>Semi erupts, “How can he feel fucking lesser than me when <em> he </em>is the one on the court, huh? If he wants a chance, he has one fucking golden opportunity right in front of him. He should know.”</p><p>Goshiki‘s voice is barely above a whisper, yet the fire is still alight in his eyes, “Maybe you don’t even care about him at all. It’s the setter thing, isn’t it? It always has been.”</p><p>The headache blooms anew across the front of his skull. His anger quells, just for a moment, when he remembers the feel of the ice pack on his forehead, and the location they are in. Turning his face to the wall, he speaks slowly, “I don’t need a lecture from you, Goshiki-san. In fact, all I want is to be alone right now, so could you please go away?”</p><p>This time, he seems to get the memo. But he doesn’t leave without patting a hand on his shoulder and apologizing, “My statements may have been out of line, but promise that you believe me when I say that I know how you feel. Hiding in the shadow of Ushijima, when I was the ace for all of my time in middle school is so scary, even if I am on the court. Shirabu didn’t steal your spot from you, Semi-san, the both of you are in competition for a position that the court only needs one of.”</p><p>“There are still ways that you can stand out there on the court among the others. I swear, you can’t give up on yourself now. You’re going to hate what you did for the rest of your life if you keep yourself in stagnation,” he finishes, giving a final pat on the back, and a prompt good night.</p><p>After he leaves, Semi feels the dissatisfaction with himself bleeds through his every pore: <em>Have I just been giving up on fighting because he’s standing in the way of what I want?  </em>When was the last time he fought for something that he wanted? There wasn’t much of a say on the matter, but he had just been wallowing for months, striking out at his team every time that they attempted to approach him.</p><p><em> Stagnation</em>.</p><p>His team is as steady as a streaming river, but he feels as though he is the dam that has been holding them back. Semi shuts his eyes and lets his mind drift, <em> what do I do, what do I do, what do I do? </em>This is only the training camp. The games haven’t even begun. It’s not over yet, it has only just begun.</p><p>
  <em> You are no Shirabu Kenjirou.</em>
</p><p>Semi Eita is not him in the slightest. They differ wildly in their playing styles, Shirabu taking the path of the silent swordsman, and he, himself, streaked with determination with controlled sets that bring out his own talent, along with elevating others. Shirabu, ever studious, would be content with a novel and a cup of coffee, when words just make his head buzz enough to need medicine.</p><p>They are of two separate realms, brought together by the same sport. On the court, there’s the simple and the proud; the calm and the furious. He’s always been more of the latter when he’s got something going for him… </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p><br/>“Have you talked to him recently?”</p><p>
  <b>“No.”</b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p><br/><br/>The team meets up right after everyone has finished their receiving drills. Semi passes by the water fountain to fill his bottle, and of course, there he runs into Shirabu, doing the same. He’s looking particularly listless for someone who could wring his guts around the tether pole three times around if he was dared to. It’s all in his choppy brown hair, and his perfect setter fingers. <em> He’s definitely getting to him.</em></p><p>Semi chooses not speak to him at the fountain. There’s just a million things on his mind and they all involve Shirabu Kenjirou in some odd form. He takes a swig of his water, and pushes past the young setter to get to the front of the school.</p><p>“It’s five miles to get there, and five miles back to this school, do you understand?” their coach, Washijo-sensei, reminds them. It's calm before the storm, yet they’re doing running drills when the cloudy sky is threatening to rain on them at any moment. Ushijima has ordered them to bring their raincoats for the run, because even if it pours, they’re still going to have to make their way back.</p><p>It’s not a sprint, merely a test of endurance. The conditions are hardly poor for running at noon either, the air is clear, the wind is breezy. The first years have done their share of running back at the school, but this is the real deal, Shiratorizawa-style boot camp. He’s sticking with Reon for this one.</p><p>With the promise of hot lunch after the run, the team ambles forward with newfound resolve. They partition off into their own teams of two, when people start getting tired. Yet, the dark-haired wing spiker matches him step-for-step, at a stable pace. The two of them push ahead of the group, right behind Ushijima, which is an accomplishment in itself (their captain is quick to leave them in his dust when they start getting out of breath. They are fucking volleyball players, not all-star runners).</p><p>The route takes them through the woodland pastures of Miyagi and hilly landmarks that signal the five mile marking, their turn-around. Their breathing is laden with exertion, and they both stop for a second to let their pulses settle. Semi is bending backwards to open up his lungs, when Reon receives a call on his cell phone from the second year, Tanji.</p><p>He slaps a hand over his eyes, “Ah, fuck.”</p><p>Semi wrinkles his brow. “What is it?”</p><p>Reon utters a quick good-bye and explains to him, “Basically, Shirabu wasn’t feeling well this morning and he passed out on the ground near the four mile mark. Tanji isn’t that fast either, so he was close to him when he fainted.”</p><p>“That little shit,” he grumbles. Shirabu was always one to skimp out on endurance training back at school. Reon says, “Ushijima supposedly missed them on the way over, but he’s running back to regroup with Tanji. Let’s meet them there.”</p><p>And the mile goes by a lot faster. Maybe it’s adrenaline or something in his head, but they get there considerably quick. He hasn’t properly spoken to the young setter since… the incident, and god, he hopes that little shit is okay, as much as he hates him. He hopes that he hasn’t bashed his thick skull down on a log, or something (oh, I can’t look at you).</p><p>When they get there, he’s conscious but completely keeled over. Tanji still has him propped up against the base of a tree, yet Shirabu is struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving up and down. Something in his stomach pulls at the sight. The second-year, Tanji, rises to his feet, an anxious mess, “He had a sudden bout of dizziness, but I didn’t have any water in my sports bottle!”</p><p>Semi curses himself for volunteering, “I have some extra water, okay?” The setter fervently nods, sprawled limply against the tree.</p><p>After handing over the bottle to his teammate, he watches as Shirabu takes a generous sip of water from where his lips just were. He caps the bottle and pitches forward to return it, but Semi huffs and lightly knocks the side of his head with his knuckles.</p><p>“Finish, you need it more than I do,” he says plainly, watching Shirabu unscrew the lid of his bottle with a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. As he downs the rest of the water, his eyes trail across the petulant features that grace the face of his young kouhai. His hair is parted neatly in all the right places and he looks fucking stunning for someone who just fainted. Semi coughs into his sleeve, distractedly.</p><p>When Shirabu has licked his lips and wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand, the radio silence between them grows louder. Semi manages to choke out, “I didn’t even know you had anemia.”</p><p>His eyes narrow slightly, and he puffs out a breath. Semi waits for him to elaborate on the subject, but his face remains ever impassive even after he has regained some of his color. The other team members give each other a look, and Reon interjects, “Why don’t we start heading back, Shirabu-san? It’s about to start raining any minute now.”</p><p>Shirabu wobbles on unsteady feet, muttering to himself about the weather and other pleasantries. His sneaker brushes against a thick root, and Semi quickly catches him by the waist before he completely tumbles back to the ground again. With his heart thundering, he is pulled back to his center of gravity.</p><p>“I’m fine,” his head slumps to the side, and the rest of his body follows. In a not-so-graceful sweep, he lands askew against Semi’s chest, and now <em> he </em> can’t breathe. Above, the first roll of thunder changes the atmosphere of the woodland forest, and the first set of raindrops grace the sky.</p><p>“We better go,” Semi suggests half-mindedly, as they each take turns piggybacking Shirabu back to the school. He’s dead against their backs, hanging on by a slim miracle. It’s raining hard now, and it’s definitely not easy to find footing on the soppy terrain.</p><p>To say the least, it’s a pissy afternoon. Ushijima explains the fainting situation to Washijo-sensei and the assistant coach, and for the most part, they let them off the hook. It’s Shirabu’s own fault, anyway. He lands himself a spot in the infirmary for a mandatory check-up to put the incident on file, while in the meantime, the coaches try to sort out what they are going to do for the remainder of the afternoon with the inclement weather.</p><p>Everyone is wet and moody. After a quick shower, the team returns to the gym, stretching in a loose circle before the rounds of practice matches commence. The assistant coach approaches them with a clipboard in hand. They stand to acknowledge his appearance. Usually the old bastard himself comes to dictate them in person, but he must be at least a little upset about Shirabu’s fainting to show up today.</p><p>“Since our starting setter will not be participating in today’s matches, Eita-kun has been requested to take his place for the afternoon.”</p><p>He shoots Tendou with a quick glance. Semi is the first setter in the reserve that they would resort to if the starter was unable to play, but this sounds too good to be true. When they were bringing Shirabu to the nurse’s office, the matter of playing volleyball was the last thing on his mind.</p><p>“Okay,” he nods, feeling a wave of energy course through his veins. <em> It’s been so long</em>. The whistle blows, and he realizes that it indeed has been a long time since he last set for his teammates. Their spikes are touching down, but the split second of uncertainty makes the set a little off.</p><p><em>Shirabu must be setting up his first tempo balls at a slightly slower pace</em>, he thinks. The team is accustomed to the ghostly sets from the second-year. Reon pulls him aside to whisper, “I like my spikes a bit higher over the net.” <em>Shit, </em>he was sending him Goshiki’s favorite set. Semi sets the ball to Ushijima, but not in the same unflinching way that Shirabu does.</p><p>This is a team that’s truly at it’s full capacity with Shirabu as the setter, he comes to know. After lunch, Semi heads back into the gym for some individual training. He has something that he needs to work on, alone. The nets are set up, and he picks the court with the slimmest chance of spiking a stray ball into an unassuming player’s face.</p><p>He practices his jump serves all night, channeling his frustrations into every volleyball that bounces down on the other side of the net. It’s a fucking release to be unrestrained in his efforts to get a point for the team. Volleyball is a team sport, but it is true when they say that serving is the only time that a player is truly alone during the game.</p><p>Being a setter meant that he had to always think two steps ahead of the opponent, and calculate every toss so that it fit into the palm of the hand of each respective spiker. He thinks of where he wants the ball to go—he breathes in—and slams it down. Serving is simple, and it’s a release.</p><p>He lines up his focus with his breathing, and slams another one down. From across the way, Yamagata approaches him to give him a towel, huffing with amusement.</p><p>“You don’t wrap with sports tape?” he inquires, inspecting the calloused edges of his fingertips. Normally, Semi doesn’t use sports tape because he likes the natural feel of the volleyball against his hands.</p><p>Semi replies, gritting his teeth, “I haven’t set the ball in a game for a bit. My hands aren’t as accustomed to the motions as they used to be.”</p><p>“Seriously? Come on, I want you to try something with me,” The libero eagerly drags him by the arm. A frown is etched into Semi’s expression, as Yamagata tosses him the ball for setting, “I’m not a setter, and you’re the freaking libero. There’s no point in practicing something stupid that we’re not putting into a game.”</p><p>Yamagata brushes him off, “We’re not going to be drilling all night, just let me spike the ball once. I just want to know what it feels like to be Ushijima.”</p><p>They practice a running set-up where Yamagata tosses the ball up—he sets—and his teammate spikes. His fingers relapse into old habits, and the ball finds its way to the perfect place. Yamagata begins with a flying motion and arcs himself up to the ball’s summit. It’s not like he doesn’t have technique, he’s plenty capable for someone who doesn’t specialize in spiking. </p><p>Semi stares down at his hands, remembering the feel of the ball and the quiet, yet extravagant, power the setter has.</p><p>“Thanks for indulging in me, Semi,” he grins wildly, wish fulfilled.</p><p>“Hey—” he sputters, “I wouldn’t mind setting if you wanted to practice spiking sometime,” he manages to say.</p><p>Yamagata bursts into laughter. “I’ll take you up on that, but let’s do it when your hands aren’t raw and bleeding. Let’s wrap them up for you.”<br/><br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>A light flicks on in the middle of night which causes him to suddenly whirl into consciousness from a sleepless dream. Semi rubs his eyes and squints out into the room. A vague shadow dances upon the wall next to his head, and he finds the culprit lying adjacent to him, hiding underneath a thin blanket with a flashlight.</p><p>
  <em> Psst!</em>
</p><p>The body unfolds itself from the sheets, and makes itself apparent in the simmering light: Shirabu. He clutches a book under his leg, and holds the flashlight between his teeth. Semi gives him a hard look, “You need to fucking sleep. It’s not like we have training camp all day tomorrow.”</p><p>“I know,” says Shirabu, twisting his fingers together. “But I need to finish this problem set because practice let out later than expected.”</p><p>“You’re doing your shitty homework?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he replies, penciling in another response on his paper. Semi exhales loudly, before rolling over onto his side to face away from the light. His drifts in and out of consciousness for the majority of the time, hearing the ever-present scratch of a pencil against cheap paper.</p><p>When he wakes up a second time, it isn’t because of any bright lights or fanfare, he hears someone <em> sobbing. </em>Semi shoots up from his futon, and finds a lump of a body huddled under his blankets, rising and falling with each sob. He crawls over to the futon quietly, only guided by the moonlight peeking from the windows.</p><p>He shakes them softly, careful not to bump anything, “Hey—goddammit, are you okay?” The sheets are fumbled around to reveal Shirabu clutching his cell phone tightly in one hand.</p><p>“I’m not having a nightmare, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he croaks, barely managing to look at him. Semi almost doesn’t believe him, but he must be gentle. He chuckles at the teary-eyed boy, “Not a nightmare then, huh? What’s keeping you up?”</p><p>“My parents,” he states. A loud whimper is elicited from his mouth, and Semi unthinkingly pulls him flush against his chest, to prevent him from waking everyone up. Shirabu wraps his arms around his middle, and muffles his cries into the old shirt that Semi is wearing. Of course he’s concerned, and it’s like back at the bus again, he doesn’t particularly care what they look like to others right now.</p><p>He pulls him closer.</p><p>When the initial tears have subsided, and Shirabu is able to maintain a semblance of his regular self, he whispers out into the dark room, “My parents,” he repeats himself, unceremonious, “They want me to focus on my studying to get into a really good medical school, so I can become a surgeon, just like them.”</p><p>Semi rests his chin tenderly against the top of Shirabu’s head and mutters a gentle <em> mmm. </em> He’s listening properly. The setter continues speaking into his shirt, “If it was really up to them, I wouldn’t be playing volleyball right now. Instead, I’d spend my summers preparing for the entrance exams, studying all day. They <em> hate </em>volleyball. They don’t even want me to be playing for the team.”</p><p>The boy in his arms squeezes tighter, heart seizing, “After I fainted earlier, they had a whole freak-out and drove up here to try to convince me to come home.”</p><p>He presses his eyes shut, feeling the tears threaten to spill again, “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>“Just… breathe, okay?” Semi tells him. He arranges them into a lying position, and immediately hooks his arms around him when he’s done.</p><p>The room falls silent, apart from the rumbling snores of their teammates. They settle into each other, just breathing. The training camp feels miles away in this intimate space. Semi speaks, “It shouldn't be their problem if you’re doing the best that you can do, especially with something that you love. You’re an amazing setter, you wouldn’t have replaced a third year if you weren’t.”</p><p>“But, if I wasn’t here, you’d be on the court right now,” Shirabu argues, voice rising. “I don’t even need to be here, I’m just wasting my time on something that I’m not even going to do after I graduate. What’s the point?”</p><p>“The point? You fucking <em> love </em> volleyball, that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t matter whether it's five years, or ten years into the future, you’re going to bring us to Nationals this year, and you’re going to remember it all. Because <em> you </em> did it.”</p><p>Shirabu is silent for a moment, but says, “Semi-san, why are you being nice to me. I’m oddly suspicious.” Semi already knows his answer:</p><p>“Because I think I like you.”</p><p>“Me too.”</p><p>(The next morning, Semi forces himself to wake up early, so that their teammates don’t find them together in Shirabu’s futon)<br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>In between lunches and practice, they find places to talk. Amidst the crowded lunchroom, Shirabu catches him unabashedly staring, and his entire face heats with a fierce blush.</p><p>“Damn, he’s blushing,” Reon points out the obvious. The others cackle maniacally. It’s been going on ever since that day at the nurse’s office, when Semi swore he would carry him all the way back. Of course, Ushijima calmly intervened, saying that there were wheelchairs available to expedite the process. Still, Semi secretly doesn’t hate the fact that they also notice the way that Shirabu lights up like a Christmas tree when he talks to him.</p><p>Only Shirabu Kenjirou could have that magnetizing effect on him. Menial tasks, like putting away the nets after practice, or even a quick pit stop at the vending machine are fun together. <em> Who would’ve ever thought that the prickly Shirabu could be considered fun? </em></p><p>He isn’t the most touchy person in front of their teammates, only offering taps on his inner wrist to show he’s there, but he sure can’t keep his pretty eyes away from him. The staring competition of the day was rudely interrupted by their friends. Semi huffs.</p><p>But late at night when everyone is sleeping, Shirabu curls up next to him on their futons, his study book tucked away, with his hair falling soft against the pillows. He is uninhibited in this space—their space—and Semi closes the distance between them and reaches out a hand to tousle Shirabu’s hair. The boy hums in approval, shifting closer until he is right under Semi’s chin.</p><p>“Hey, can you do that thing...with the hair?” asks Semi, as Shirabu’s hands find their way into the hair at the base of his neck. His eyes are closed, but his hands move magically, sifting through the tufts of sandy locks. He is knit between Semi’s hug, and the quiet tug of his heartstrings. His heart aches for more.</p><p>He slots his leg comfortably between Shirabu’s, and his hands move up and down against his back in a gentle rhythm. They are so close that he can hear a firm heartbeat against his chest. </p><p>“I didn’t know that you had irregular heart palpitations too,” Semi teases, his own heartbeat fooling none of them.</p><p>Shirabu replies, “Only for you.”</p><p>“Shut up,” he muses, turning him around so that they can spoon. They cuddle for as long as they can, because it can’t last forever.</p><p>The training camp is soon over before they know it. Everything is where it needs to be, their lodging room void of anything that marked their presence within the last two weeks: bags are packed, futons are all rolled up.</p><p>In a way, it’s the end of an era for him. As a third-year, this was his last summer training intensive in his high school career. It is a little bittersweet knowing that he won’t be able to do it again, at least with the same people, in the spaces that they have created.</p><p>The hosting school waves them off as the bus pulls away, a constant reminder:</p><p>
  <em> “Hey, that’s my seat,” Semi grins, feeling a corner of his lip quirk upwards. Shirabu stares him down and says: “It’s already taken.” </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em><br/>If I don’t believe in love</em>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>You’re too good for me.<br/></em> </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
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